


The realms underneath

by 35391291



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Dreamscapes, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: There is one more path to walk among the thorns and the ravens. One more path within, to find that the destination was right here all along.The words hide among magic, dreams and the North wind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a companion to [A rainfall of crows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7975699). Unexpectedly, it became another prayer for the Raven King.

_I look for you in heathered moor_  
_The desert, and the ocean floor_  
_How low does one heart go_

 _Looking for your fingerprints_  
_I find them in coincidence_  
_And make my faith to grow_

 _Forgive me all my blindnesses_  
_My weakness and unkindnesses_  
_As yet unbending still_

 _Struggling so hard to see_  
_My fist against eternity_  
_And will you break my will?_

 _Now what would you have me do_  
_I ask you please?_

 _I wait to hear_  
_Your voice_  
_The word_  
_You say_  
_I wait_  
_To see_  
_Your sign_  
_Could I_  
_Obey?_

\- Suzanne Vega: [Penitent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9jPDq8jarY).

 *

 _I won't use words again_  
_They don't mean what I meant_  
_They don't say what I said_  
_They're just the crust of the meaning_  
_With realms underneath_  
_Never touched_  
_Never stirred_  
_Never even moved through_

\- Suzanne Vega: [Language](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ksZkoFUsrg).

 *

Starecross is home now. He knows that he belongs in this house, among these people. But sometimes he feels slightly out of place. He is like a caged, untamed animal, beaten by the years, but still made of quick steps and fire. He is always on guard, he can't help it. And he seems to be waiting for something to go wrong, which it always does. There is trouble every day. But trouble is only a bird, a tree, a small weapon. It is his own heart. And that is the piece that doesn't fit, because there might be nowhere to fit in. There are no words for him here.

When he wakes up at night, his dreams are full of premonitions that seem to make the sky last forever. Sometimes, they become real as walls and bridges and the cold heart of iron. They are wild as hallucinations. Every time, it is the same. He struggles to hold back the tears that nest inside him, like a thousand birds of ill omen. He is a dark stranger again, a threat to himself. He is afraid, but not for himself. He would sacrifice this rightness, if it meant that they would be kept safe. It might mean the end of this world that they have made for themselves. Perhaps, it is for the best. Belonging isn't practical or methodical, not for long. And running seems like the wise thing to do.

The shadow calls him, and this is the only possible road to take. The maps only show him despair now, like a ship lost in the wide, dark sea. They lead towards blood worlds where he has never been. But he knows he must, eventually. There is always a crossroads. And never a destination, never a place to rest.

The hours until morning feel like a walk over the abyss, among the fallen leaves of the hawthorn tree, the stones along the path, and all the stars above. All he has is a handful of lost opportunities and the blue mouth of fear. Both are good enough to make himself a mask. Everything else, he has traded in for nothing. Would something change, if he wasn't here anymore? Would someone know? His hands move over the sharp, red pain of silence. He wants to catch these words and bring them close to him again, but they swim away like lost, drunken prayers. They are both the wound and the knife. And they hurt, but his heart won't break. It doesn't know how to.

His dreams aren't always unpleasant, but they still confuse him. He keeps dreaming about walking by a house, but never going in. Until now. Just like that, there is a wooden door and a thousand ice splinters in his hand. He pushes, and glass pushes back, but allows him to sample a sort of small reward. A whispered encouragement, a place to hide away. A way out. So it must be right, to tackle the cold stairs and carve these obvious words on the wall. It must be right.

He wakes up, and opens his eyes. This is his room at Starecross, he is still here. The world is small, quiet and safe. The dream blurs, and the night comes full circle. There is one more path to walk among the thorns and the ravens. One more path within, to find that the destination was right here all along.

He is hurt, but unafraid. He has found the words. He wants to remember them, and he won't need books or spells. His heart will work just as well. This is a wild prayer, a promise held close. And the words know it. They rage and overflow, and will not hide anymore. They fade from time to time, but they have their own method, their own language. They will stay in his mouth and in his cards, spelling out the realms underneath his heart. Things he thought he had no name for. And things he thought he had lost.

And one day, the North wind will also remember the words. It will heal his old wounds and cover up the pain. And it will say _he walked here, his steps marked the way. The light touched him, as gentle as a black feather. And at last the shadow became a man._


End file.
